Respicio et Amor
by MZS6 Animarine
Summary: One day England has had enough with america's disrespect. In order to regain America's respect, he turns back the sands of time...to bad for him that magick doesn't like to play simple. Multiple ages!England.
1. Chapter 1: The Meeting

Chapter 1 Hetalia

It was a harsh, rainy afternoon, the waves pounded on the sea shore with a furious fascination, forcing any normal being to stare in awe and fear at its hostility. Next to the beach, stood a a three-story house, which while was vast and beautiful, was empty and isolated in this little shore. Neither a house or a road or a person could ever be found within miles of this place, except the owner of this house. The owner only visited this place a few days in every other month, and it seemed that today was one of those days.

As the rain continued to pour, a short figure opened the pale door of this house. With a murderous glint in his eyes, the man marched toward the kitchen, not bothering to lock the door. There he roughly grabbed a kettle from a cabinet, filled it with water and placed it on a stove mouth, turning it on. Then, began a pace rapidly in the available space of the kitchen, subconsciously set upon wearing a hole on the ground before the evening was over.

To some people he might have been seen as the equivalent a ranging dragon, perhaps even the source of all legends of hominoid dragons. However, someone who knew this irritated blond would also know that no overgrown lizard could dish out as much pain as this man could: for this man was none other then the personification of England himself, with the temper to prove it and any one who had half a brain cell would prefer to face a dragon rather then to cross his path when he was angry.

Once the kettle began to sound, he halted goal of destroying the floor in favor of pouring himself some water in the closest clean cup available. He placed a tea bag on the cup and mixed it with a spoon. When he raised the cup to his lips, ready to drink his beloved ambrosia, some of it spilled into his hand and arms. He immediately let got of the china cup out of reflex, and watched in horror as the cup fell and shattered on the floor. Stunned, he stared at the remains of what was his favorite teacup, a gift from Queen Victoria herself on the day of her nomination before he punched a cabinet door out of rage, wincing slightly at the sharp pain from the impact. Then, as if the throbbing had grounded him, he kneeled and started to carefully collect the different porcelain pieces before cleaning the spilled liquid with a nearby towel.

'Today seems to be getting worse.' He thought. 'And it all began in that stupid meeting.' This meeting, in Germany, was a G8, which he, as the nation of England, was required to attend, if only for his own benefit. Yet, today had been the first day of the usual weeks of the occasion and already he had flown back to his land. Right now he was in a beach house that he had never mentioned to anyone with the exception of the royal family. The house had no cell phones, and no Internet, which made it nearly impossible for him to be tracked by a phone system or by entering his e-mail, which made it the perfect place to run off to whenever he needed a break from the idiots he is flocked by on the day-to-day basis.

'Actually it all began with America being a jerk' he remembered, sluggishly going up the stairs to the second floor where he had a bedroom. He laid down on the wood bed of the room.

He had been fighting with France, like he always did at one point in those meetings, when France had poked him in his stomach. Being incredibly ticklish, England had no choice but to falter when he felt the (almost) foreign sensation. It was the only thing he had never expected in the middle of a fight, and his shock must have shown on his face because Francis glanced at him, and gleefully shouted: "So you are ticklish after all! I thought it was just a rumor!"

Of course, America, who until this moment had been having a discussion with China about whether or not McDonalds was more famous then Chinese restaurants, chose that moment to hear what France was saying. From then on he proceeded to repeatedly test the 'rumor' true, much to England's irritation. The meeting finally ended when Germany, Russia, China, Prussia (who shouldn't have been there in the first place), and France had to hold down an enraged England from beating America into a bloody pulp, while the unconscious American was being carried out of the room by Japan and Canada and Italy cowered behind a nearby cluster of chairs. When England was finally calmed down and agreed to not kill America, the room was a mess, China had a bloody nose, Germany a purple eye, and everyone looked a little worse to wear (including England himself.).

'That was a great punch! It knocked that bugger out before he even noticed. He bloody deserved it too, that bloody idiot. It was his own to disregard me when I told him to stop.'

And indeed no one in the meeting could remember how many times England had growled out a "stop it!" or a "Don't make me hurt you!" It was unfortunate for the American to not notice that they weren't just empty words.

"Sometimes he just seems to have no respect for me, like as if what I say is just something to be ignored." England whispered sadly to himself, all of his magical friends having had disappeared when they saw him angry. "He used to respect me once, back when he was little, but I suppose that I lost that respect when he became independent, huh? I wish he remembered why he respected me back then. Surely he respected me for more reasons then me being stronger then him. If he remembered that other reasons then maybe he will respect me again, right?"

He received no response for his questions, except the constant sound of the rain outside, but that didn't matter because he already had a plan. There was a tricky little spell in one of his magic books that would do perfectly. Ditching the bedroom, he rushed to another room in the second floor where he left most of his magic related things, including his potion ingredients, the many things that he normally used for rituals (which consisted mostly of candles, chalk, and a little free space.), and his many, many trinkets. Ignoring the space where Busby's chair used to be, Arthur went to the shelf closest to the room's only window. There he took a thick book from near the bottom and flipped the pages until he reached a particular title. The spell was white-gray magic, mostly because while the intent was light, it also left a person open and vulnerable. It was not uncommon for the effected party to be murdered or mauled by a enemy or a wild animal while under its influence. However, England can protect America should it be the case, he was powerful after all.

He summoned his magic wand from the invisible dragon leather holster in his wrist. It was a white rod made from an albino apple tree that he had found in his woods back when he was just a little child. The tree's wood and leafs had been turned into dust by his helpful brownie friend Sally (sadly brownies are extremely misunderstood; today they are called house elves and are treated as slaves by wizards.). The dust had then been collected and frozen by the Irish 'blue hag' Cailleach Bheur herself, but only after a lot of pleading from both him and his many friends.

The result was a never melting pykrete tablet that was later cut into the appropriate shape for a wand, a ring, and a rod. The wand had the fur and a fang of a devil dog that attacked him (and of which he had slayed) as its core, thus balancing the previous white magic of the wand into a gray. On the head of the wand was a yellow star, which oddly enough was made from a mix of aquamarine stone and fairy dust. The ring he had made hollow and filled its inside with willingly given unicorn blood. The blood gave the ring powerful healing and protecting properties. Today the ring was inside a box in his main house's basement, a place that he could always reach should he need it. The third object was his ritual rod, which he used quite often but not enough to justify taking it to wherever he wanted.

Enough about his trinkets though; he had a spell to cast. After gazing at the page once again to see if he had it right, he closed his eyes and prayed like he usually did before the more specific spells.

'Hecate, goddess of magick, / Guide the magic of this spell to ensure it of its success/ Guide us in the path of the charm and allow the results to come/ Keep away the danger of vulnerability/and expose us to the occasion necessary for the spells' triumph/ So mote it be.'

He opened his eyes and instead of the normal sea green they were instead neon green. He opened his mouth, and from then an older form of English flowed. The sound, much like another language altogether, was then accompanied with the seemly random movements of the wand in his hand. However, these movements weren't random, and the evidence of that appeared when the tip began to glow neon, very much like his eyes. Then he turned the wand towards himself and a small flash of light jumped to his skin. Although it couldn't be seen, the energy from the spark was spreading evenly above his skin, and as soon as America touched the energy with his own skin the spell would activate.

He smirked proudly; part 1 was a success. Now all he needed was to get the American to activate the spell. His smirk faltered. Alfred was still in Germany, and since Germany was a few hours ahead of England, he was most likely going to bed at this time. There was no way that he would get there before at least 9:00 p.m. (German time), and no one would want to be visited at this hour when they had to be up early the next morning, much less if its by the guy who had socked them unconscious earlier that day.

He had no choice but to go back to Germany and try to activate the spell the next day in the G8 meeting. Hopefully his desire for the plan to work might be sufficient to keep his anger in check when he gets close to the American. He isn't quite ready to forgive him yet, not until he apologizes.

A few Hours ago, back in Germany:

Alfred winced when he opened his eyes. His body ached all over, and not in a good way. The second thing he noticed was that there was a man next to his bed. Next, he became aware of is that this man was no other then his younger brother Matthew. His brother seemed tense, worried, and a true hero shouldn't allow anyone to worry, specially over them.

"Someone please get the name of the driver that ran me over," America cried dramatically "I need to sue 'em."

His (somewhat) loud statement was met with some shock from his sibling, but soon enough Canada smiled lightly and played along:

"Arthur Kirkland is his name." America winced once more.

"Did I really have to go to the hospital?" He asked annoyed.

"This is an infirmary. We are still inside the Germany's G8 building." Canada replied swiftly. "It's good that you woke up though, we were beginning to get worried. That was some punch."

"I didn't think he would punch that hard. He never did before." America responded before becoming silent, thinking. 'normally I'm the one who lets my temper take control of me when it come to losing track of strength, not England. Even when I insult his cooking he still doesn't hit me as hard as he could. That's why annoying him is so fun; In spite of everything I do he can still restrain himself to not hurt me severely even if he wants to.'

"Nor did I. I knew that he was going to hit you before the meeting was over, but I thought that he would stop after you fell unconscious. However, he didn't stop trying to kill you until after everyone managed to pin him down. He typically stops as soon as Germany begins to scream."

America opened his mouth to reply despite the fact that he had trouble believing this new set of events, when the door to the room opened to reveal France and Japan. They were looking at each other so it was obvious that they had been talking, however as soon as they saw America they abruptly stopped their conversation.

"Oh, Amerique, you are alive!" France gushed happily, jumping to the injured nation's bedside. "I was so scared that your injuries would be the end of you. Oh, what would I have done without you my beloved Amerique? I could not go on! Why if. . ."

"France, please, we talked about this. No flirting with my brother! Specially not when I'm around, or when he is healing." Matthew interrupted the nation of love, his scolding tone losing its effect thanks to the smile that he was trying to contain.

"My dearest Matthew, do not be jealous! There is plenty of love and affection for you too!" Francis cried dramatically, then lowered his voice into a husky whisper, "Besides, you shall always be the only syrup for my pancakes."

Whatever that meant was lost on Alfred, who knew that he was not supposed to have heard that, but he could tell that they weren't talking about breakfast food at all due to the prominent blush that crept on his brother's face.

"I am very glad that you are alright Alfred-san. We were not sure of your well-being before." Kiku stated calmly since it seemed that no one had anything to add.

"Thanks Kiku! But there was not that much to worry about to begin with. Its not like a few little punches would have kept me down for long. I am a hero after all, and a hero ain't a hero if he can't heal fast." America quipped proudly.

"Alfred, I haven't seen Arthur act this brutal since WW2." France answered seriously. "Maybe you should take some time to prepare a apology for him, since this was no mere bicker."

"But France, England and I fistfight all the time. Today's incident will be forgotten about in a few hours, I swear. Iggy just overreacted."

"If I may comment?" Asked Kiku, raising his hand a little to bring attention to himself. He took everyone's stare as a yes. "Alfred-san, Francis-san is right. I suspect that England's actions earlier in the meeting was based on some kind of past experience. If I am right then his anger will be tied down to you until he can forget the memory itself, which we cannot much about. It would be better if you take this seriously unless you wish to hinder your friendship?"

"His past, you say?" Alfred replied, some worry creeping into his voice. He hated it when Arthur began to mourn his revolution. Hated how he would drink himself silly until all he could do was cry and sob about how stupid America was, how mean his older brothers were to leave him to do all the paperwork, and how awful the War of Roses had been. More then once had America been called by one England's ministers or Royals to either have his ear screamed off or be quilt-tripped into luring England out of wherever he had holed himself in during his drunken haze; be it a roof, underneath a car, or in the stage of a punk rock show.

'That had been a very shocking experience. Who knew England could sing?' America thought, amused remembering that England had completely dazed the crowd. 'He is always so gentlemen-ish, its hard to believe that England could be so rebellious, specially when he began to insult his own government. Who on earth goes on stage to insult themselves, anyway?'

He was rudely taken from his memories when Japan said:

"Affirmative, not much else could have been the catalyst of his reactions. I fear that it isn't you who is at fault, which would make it harder for him to forgive you since he seems to have blamed you."

"But if I'm not to blame, then why should I apologize in the first place?" America said confused.

"As Kiku just said, you might not be at fault but he is blaming you. Therefore, his anger is directed at you and that will effect the connection between you two more then it will effect the relationship between England and the one who is to blame." Canada stated tiredly. 'He really is incapable at reading between the lines. No wonder Arthur is always mad at him. England is to subtle in conveying his inner thoughts, and he frequently denies any intent that Alfred does picks up on, which America immediately believes.'

"England has been known to do so before." France stated gloomy. He didn't elaborate any further when the others sent him questioning looks.

"Fine, I will." America stated. "But does anyone know where he is?"

"His hotel room is 307." Japan responded. Surprised a rigid America turned to stare at him, his face set in a glare without his notice. ' I could understand it if he knew where Iggy is but why does he know England's room number?'

His unstated question must have been obvious because Japan hurriedly said: "Do not worry America-san, I say him when he first got here two days ago, so I helped him take his baggage to his room."

The glare lessened. America relaxed his shoulders. 'Japan always does these things for everyone, and that includes Iggy. Besides Iggy would tell me if he liked anyone, right? Right. After all, I am one of his closest friends.' He stood up, careful to not let neither his brother nor his friends, if France could be considered that, know how much it hurt to move.

"I'll see you later guys!" he waved cheerfully, walking out the door. Canada cast the American a worried look, not convinced that the American would know how to apologize correctly before following his brother outside.

As soon as the door closed, France turned to Japan. "How long do you think it will take for the two get over the fight and go back to their subtle flirting? I say it might be about a week, maybe two."

"I believe that if they find themselves in the right situation, then perhaps they might be aware of how much they like each other. It would be great for my manga series if they were to understand the full connotations of their arguments, particularly since they eventually begin to flirt shamelessly once they begin to see the other's reaction to it." Japan declared, fingering the spy cam that he hid in his shirt's button. He wasn't allowed bring cameras to the meetings, not after everyone took a vote on it (well, he had filmed all of them after someone had spiked all the drinks in the room -Go, Prussia, Go!-, and he had stuck to the drink he had brought. Good times, good times.). Still, there was a lot of Usuk footage in those meetings, and he was not going to miss them.

"I doubt it, America is too dense to see it unless it hits him in the face, and England will deny it to hell and back." France said. "It is a matter of time; these two can't have it any other way."

"I disagree."

"You have the right to do so." France looked a Japan looked solemn, "I just hope that England doesn't do anything stupid. That might slow their progress down."

Japan hummed an affirmative, not bothering to defend his friend against the accusation. It was very much possible.

Together the two wandered of the infirmary, continuing their conversation.


	2. Chapter 2: The Change

Chapter 2 Hetalia

America knocked on the door again. He had been waiting in front of this door for almost half an hour, and still he was ignored. But he wouldn't give up, couldn't give up. He was willing to wait until tomorrow in front of this door if that's what it took for him to have a chance to talk with England.

'He will have to go out of the room if he wants to make it to the meeting, and he kind of has to.' He signed sadly 'Maybe I should sit down, it will be a long night.' And so he sat on the floor, leaning his back on he door. 'There, now he can't open the door without me knowing.' He fell asleep a few seconds later, his glasses falling on his lap.

His nap was rudely disrupted when his head hit the floor. Even blinded he knew who was responsible for waking him up, especially when he heard the perpetrator's voice.

"Ooophs, my bad." The clipped tone was dipping in sarcasm. It was obviously England, and it appears that he was still very mad. Sitting up, America shoved Texas back on his face and eagerly turned to see the older nation. Now he could say his sorry and they will go back to being friends. Tomorrow they will go out for ice cream, and laugh at the whole thing.

His gaze was met with an empty hotel room. England hadn't been able to close the door without pushing the American away. England was clearly trying to avoid any contact with him; a sure sign that America's hopes were in vain since it was not something the smaller blond would usually have any problems with.

Entering the room he closed the door and paused for a moment to search the other nation out. The room itself, although neat and clean to a fault, was devoid of the ex-empire. 'Someone really has to teach Iggy how to relax for a change.' He said as he stared at the neat stacks of papers on the table, some taller then America's head with the others not far behind.

Next, he took a chair, and turned it to face the bathroom, which was the only place that England could have gone to. Sure enough, there was some light seeping from under the door. 'Maybe I should turn on the light?' America asked himself, almost convincing himself to stand up. 'But I don't feel like it.' And so he stayed slouching on the chair, waiting for England again.

Although it took a while, the door eventually opened again, and the blond walked out, bathed and dressed in his pajamas. He didn't seem to have noticed Alfred sitting on the chair, but America knew that he had. 'He must be really mad, he's not even glaring at me!' Instead, he walked to the bed and wasted no time in burying himself under the covers.

"Iggy?" America whispered quietly, knowing from experience that being too loud might flare the nation's ire. He was ignored. "Iggy, please! I'm sorry!" he whispered once more, not quite faking the pleading tone of his voice. He was ignored again.

America frowned at the bungle in the bed. England would have usually have done something by this point, either said some bitter comment to hurt America, or thrown a pillow at him. Then he would demand America to repeat all of his apologies until he was satisfied enough to make his own. The cold shoulder was not like him. If it wasn't for the sarcasm from before, America would have thought this was an impostor.

Quietly crawling on the bed's surface, Alfred sent the elder nation a disarming smile and reached out slowly to pull a few covers away from Arthur's face so as to not startle the elder nation into attacking him for the second time that day. England was glaring at him icily, and if they weren't at such odd terms, America would have thought that it was a How-Dare-You-Disturb-My-Warm-Covers glare; instead here it would be read as a Come-Any-Closer-And-You-Will-Wish-You-Had-Stabbed-Yourself-Instead glare. The glare was promptly ignored when the taller nation softly caressed his cheek, failing to not notice how the skin was soft under his fingers, before hitting him with the full power of the puppy eye combo (Eyes and pout! Both guaranteed to swoon even the grumpiest of the grumpiest!).

"I am really sorry Artie. Please forgive me." America said, coating his words with honesty. Lying to England was near impossible: the ex-Empire could sniff out a lie from him every time he tried, and he would only get madder if he tried. The older man made no sign of having heard what he said, but America didn't mind having to repeat himself again and again if it meant that the green-eyed island would stop glaring at him.

"Shut up and go away." England stated coldly. America froze before any other sound passed through his throat, but he didn't move immediately. 'Maybe England isn't ready to forgive me yet.' He thought. 'It would be useless to try to talk to him when his like this. I'll just have to try again in the morning.'. he watched as the older nation closed his eyes angrily, his skin wrinkled because of his scowl.

"Alright Iggy, I'll go." He relented, before the sudden urge made itself known. He stared at the man in front of him, puzzled as to why he would want to comfort England with a kiss on his forehead, and debated with himself. After all, it was not something to be taken lightly.

Why would he, the super cool hero America, want to kiss the forehead of ill-tempered, distrustful, and sarcastic jerk with pearly green eyes like England? Specially since England wouldn´t think twice before creaming him into a pulp for such action, if earlier today was anything to go by. However, the idea was tempting; it seemed right somehow, regardless of the long painful history between them, and maybe even because of it.

'Do it!' Shouted a desperate, somewhat frustrated, part of his mind. 'Just look at him! He is upset right? Well, remember how in the colony days he would kiss me when I was upset, and I would always fell better! now its my turn to return the favor!'

'but he'll kill me!' stated a more logical part, ´painfully too.`

´But I have to kiss him! A hero shouldn't let a damsel alone to suffer through her distress when he can help her! Huh… him.`

´First off, England is not a damsel! He can take care of himself. Second off, isn't he mad at me for touch-

´Why should it be any different with a friend in need? He needs comfort either way. And a hero must always help those in need!`

´Don`t be suicidal! He`ll never forgive me if I do that!`

´Of coarse he will! I`m the hero! No one can be mad at a hero unless they are the bad guys, and iggy isn't a bad guy!`

"That's true" whispered America out loud as he leaned down, before placing his lips on the soft skin of his friend`s temple. It was a nice feeling, America noticed; one that he really liked. America started to pull away, but froze when England shifted. The taller nation stared fearfully as England moved, expecting him to open his eyes into a glare and shout profanities at him until his ears bleeded but England only relaxed his frown a bit, and settled into another position.

America smirked lightly, England was asleep. More than glad that he wouldn´t have to endure England`s wrath again so soon, especially over something so stupid like a little kiss.

He stood up, and began to make his way to the chair that he was sitting in before. He will sleep there tonight, he decided, so that England wouldn't be able to sneak past him in the morning. Knowing the older nation, if he manages to slip away it would be near impossible to find him again, and that won´t do. America wanted to continue apologize tomorrow before the meeting, and get it accepted by then too. He sat down and tried to make himself comfortable in the chair, which was hard since the chair was too small to curl up comfortably in and he had no blankets. Well, maybe he would get a cold tomorrow and England would forgive him out of pity.

A bright light flashed from behind him caught his attention. He turned around, but he saw no light, only semi-dark hotel room, where only light source was the moon that shined through a window. All of the sudden the light flashed again, coming from the bed, but instead of disappearing again, the source began to glow. He looked closer, and he found out that the glow coming from ... well from. . . England himself. Every piece of England's skin that America could see (the face, some neck and a hand) was glowing white.

'Why is Artie glowing?' He asked himself. He was answered with another flash of light, a brighter one then before. He fell backwards in surprise, not having been prepared for the pain the light brought to his eyes. The pain was soon replaced with worry when England groaned in pain. America stood up and rapidly made his way towards the glowing nation. Once he got there he lightly slapped England's face a few times to wake him up, knowing (by experience) that England always knew what was going on, no matter what it was. Another flash of light swept the room, once again coming from England's skin and bringing another cry from the still sleeping nation.

"Artie!" he shouted, slapping a little harder as he began to panic. Another flash came, this time so bright that America immediately pulled his hands into his face, which caused him to lose his balance and fall from the edge of the bed. By the time that he stood up, and climbed on top of the bed again, the glow had died down entirely, and so had England. He pulled the covers on forcefully, desperate to know if his friend was okay. Soon enough he revealed a face with bushy eyebrows, so he signed in relief and smiled softly, but then he noticed something strange. First it was a trail of dried tears coming from the eyes and of mucus flowing from the nose. The second thing that he noticed was a long cut on the cheek that America knew that England didn't have earlier. Otherwise, he was a split image of England, down to the cute frown England always seemed to have. However, America knew that England hadn't been crying, and he also did not have a cut on his cheek and because of that alone, America knew that this person, whoever it was, could not be England. He pulled off the last cover, and instead of the 22-year old nation, on the bed was a smaller figure, a significantly smaller figure of a little boy. His eyes were closed, his hair was caked with mud and leaves, so much so that America couldn't even tell the color of his hair. Curious, America leaned closer. The child before him could be no more then 4-years old, his face was small, round, dirtied and scratched all over, in fact he had many scratches all over him, and a large bruise in his hand and wrists. His shirt was dirty and ripped apart, with dark stains of what America supposed was blood and his pants, although in a better shape, was soaked up until the waist with mud.

'Who would do such a thing to a child?'America thought angrily, his hero instincts torn between finding out what happened to England, taking care of the tiny kid before him and hunting down the bastard who dared to do such a thing to this poor child. 'No such person should be alive. Maybe I should take up the death penalty for once and for all, then I can have this monster tried in one of my courts. He´ll never get away with it, I can promise that. Still, I have to take care of the child first, he shouldn't have suffer any longer.'

America promptly turned on the lights, went to England's traveling bag, and messed around in it until he found a discrete little pocket on the side. It was where the older blond left all of his first aid materials. Even though it was small, it contained many ointments and bandages, powerful ones too. America only knew about this little pocket because England had taken care of him when he had fallen down a hill a few years ago when the G8 was in Italy`s place. 'There is something great about having a paranoid friend. He is always prepared for everything.' America thought as he began to look for the right bottles. soon enough he had a small collection of bottles and band-aids and all the other thingies that England had used on his cuts, so he stuffed England´s stuff back into the bag.

Being careful, he shook the child awake and softly whispered "Hello there, my name is Alfred. Who are you?" The kid opened his eyes, revealing the same sea green color that Arthur´s had, and blinked up at him. For a few seconds the child stared up at him, and he smiled his sweetest smile in return, willing the kid to just smile back and quietly allow him to take care of the wounds like the hero he was. But life couldn`t always be that easy huh?

"Indruder! Indruder!" the child cried, before tackling America and punching him as if his life depended on it. The American could only stare as England´s mini-me repeatedly hit him, and bellowed things that children that age shouldn't even know, much less use. Obviously, the punches didn't actually hurt the American, but the effort couldn't be helping the kid´s injuries at all.

So America held him down because a hero had to save people from being hurt, even if they themselves are the reason for it, and ignored the curses coming from the young one's mouth. The child struggled against him, kicking and screaming with all his might.

"Calm down, everything is alright."Alfred cooed in his ears, "I won't hurt you." The little one must have heard him because he struggled harder. 'Not what I was hoping for.' America thought, feeling some of the kid´s warm blood begin to make his hold slippery. 'He reopened the cuts. That's bad.' In a short amount of time the kid had wriggled out of America's grasp.

At once, the child ran to the nearest door and entered it. He also closed the door, much to the annoyance of America who had followed him. America quickly wiped his hands on his shirt, ignoring the blood all over it, and knocked on the door. "It's alright, I promise that I won't hurt you."

He pushed the door open, looking for the child, and blocked the way out so the boy wouldn't slip by him. He locked the door, and turned on the lights. It was a large bathroom, at least when it comes to hotel bathrooms. Its floor was made of pale beige tiles, and it had a sink with the same color. The walls were white and the room had a huge shower/tub. However, all that America noticed was that the floor had a clear trail of blood, and that trail led directly to one of the sink's cabinets. Unless the child knew how to fly through walls then there is no doubt about where he was hiding.

The trail led to the middle cabinet, where a small handprint was visible on the door. 'He really is losing a lot of blood.' America thought concerned. Then he sat in front of the cabinet, and pressed his ears on the door. He couldn't hear much, except for a faded sound of breathing. He pulled away, his mind flashing back to a mission he and England went together in WW2. England had been this quiet back then; he had managed to be so quiet that America had feared that he had died until Arthur had smiled to him and patted his back. 'The child is more like England then what is healthy.' America thought as leaned backwards and embraced himself for round two.

"You can come out now." Then he stifled a laugh as he heard a yelp. After a while the door opened enough for America to see a pair of green eyes peering up at him. 'He must be England's carbon copy, there is no one else with these eyes and eyebrows. They are Arthy-traits.' Green inspected blue and eventually the doors were completely open. The kid didn't walk out of the cabinet though, and instead crossed his little arms as he sat down where he was and glared at the older male. The glare made America want to laugh even harder, but he knew from experience with England that doing so would not help his cause (although with England he also had the risk of being hurt.), and treating this kid like he would treat England seemed right somehow, but maybe it was just the similarity between them speaking.

"Come here." America cooed as he patted his lap softly. "I want to see those cuts." The kid didn't budge. "Come here." he repeated, his voice firmer than before, bordering on an order.

"no" the child whispered.

"Why not?" America asked. "jus no!" The child said turning away from the American.

"But why not?" America asked louder.

"No!" The child screamed over its shoulder.

America signed and told himself to stop arguing with the child. There simply was no point; the argument wasn't witty as one with England or as fun as one with Japan or Canada, and the child was still bleeding so he had no time to waste. Suddenly a idea struck him: what if he could make the child come to him by insulting it. He remembered that England used to do that to Sealand when the he was little. He may as well try it.

"Are you a mule?" America asked the little one before him.

"What? No! A mule I am not." The child turned to him and glared. America held back another laugh.

"Then I don't see why you act like one."

"I do not act like a mule!" The child screamed at him.

"You do!"

"Do not!"

"Yes, you do!"

"No, I do not!"

"Oh yes you do!"

"I do not!"

"Then prove it!" said America gleefully, as he ignored the kid´s glare.

"Come on, prove to me that you are not, and come here already." The child halted, surprised at the statement, and blinked up at the American. "Aren't you going prove to me that you aren´t just a stubborn mule?" The kid glared harder.

America tried to hold himself back, he really did, but it was funny to see England's lethal glare being imitated by a child. The overall effect was adorable more so since his nose was all wrinkled, but it just made America want to laugh, because it made the kid look like as if he had stuffed his face with something that he didn't like.

'Oh England, if you could see this! You'd be so mad for being mocked like this! Maybe I should take some pictures, I know that France will enjoy this, and then I'll have something to annoy England with.' He mused as he kneeled over from laughing.

Eventually America got a hold of himself and remembered that the kid was wounded. So he sat down again and looked at the kid.

"look, I don't want to hurt you, but if you don't come here I will be forced to go there, and the more you struggle, the more your cuts will hurt. So you have a choice, come here so I can help you or I will go there and get you. Either way, I will help you." Said America quietly, his face as set as stone.

The child looked at him, and bit his lips. "but I don wan to." The kid frowned.

"You need to clean them. Even if you don't want to"

"Wil it urt?"

"just a little, but it will be over before you know it."

"kay" said the kid as he made his way to America´s lap. At once, America warped his arms around the little boy, and lifted him up. Some moments ago he had though that it would be alright to just clean and dress the wounds, but after he say the amount of blood all over the kid, he knew that he wasn't dealing with just a few little cuts. As such, a bath was in order.

He stood up and headed towards the bathtub. He placed the kid on top of the toilet lid and began to fill the tub with warm water. As the tub filled, he turned back to the kid and began to undress him.

"You never told me your name." He stated as he struggled to take of the kid´s shirt and cape without touching any of the cuts. "it would be nice to know your name."

"My nami is Gueat Bitain" the child mumbled, as the shirt and cape were pulled away.

"What was it that you said?" America quipped, unwilling to believe what he

had just heard.

"Gueat Bitain. My nami is Gueat Bitain." The kid stated again. America said nothing, and began to take out the rest of the kid´s rags and throw them in the trash.

When the kid was clear of any clothing, America gently carried him into he full tub and turned off the water. "but yu can cal mi Bitain."

"Well Britain, where are you from?" America asked, carefully using the soap bar to rub the dirt off Britain.

"Im fom Gueat Bitain! Duh! Weh else?" America smirked, if what he was hearing was true, then this kid must be England. How, he didn't know, but England had suddenly disappeared, and the kid had appeared in his place. If that was possible, then what wasn´t?

"huh… Scotland?" The least he could do was have some fun.

"NOOO! Thas mai boder!"

"Your brother?" America asked, using some of the shampoo he had just found to clean Britain´s hair.

"yea, mai boder!"

"I don't think I ever say your brother, how is he like?"

"hes big and mean, and scawy." Britain scowled. "An so is wahles"

"so you don´t like your brothers then?"

"no, I don. Thei don want mi aniwai" At that moment America drained the tub, not at all surprised that the water was brown with all the dirt. He picked up a shower hose and washed the dirty water off him. Afterwards he picked Britain up and wrapped him in a towel.

"How do you know that they don't want you?"

"Thei urt mi, and figt with mi"

"is that what happened to you? Why you are so hurt?"

"yea." America stared at him, not believing that he had just fought in a war. He was simply too tiny to be in a war, to vulnerable. Was that the way that England´s life had begun? With wars and struggles and pain? "but don wowy, I won de wahr." Britain said smugly, bringing America out of his thoughts.

"oh, um… lets get you dressed, then." America walked out of the bathroom with Britain, and headed to the pile of things he had set out before. Without a word he began to patch up all of the cuts that Britain had, including 12 on his chest and another 5 another ones all over his arms, legs, and face, beginning with the deeper ones. Then he passed some ointment on all of the bruises he could find. When he was done he put away all of the things back into England´s bag, and looked at the clock in his wrist. It read 2:17 am, much to his surprise. So he picked up Britain and settled them both down on the bed, with Britain resting his head on America´s arm..

"Good night Britain." He said as he turned off the lights with his other arm.

"Goo nait" he heard Britain whisper before his eyes closed and blackness took over.


End file.
